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James wasn't certain, but could either of them truly be? Everything was little more than a poorly constructed house at this point, a pot of stew filled with nonsensical ingredients. The ceiling above them could well topple in a matter of minutes, or else defy gravity and remain raised up; similarly, the meal they were to consume could easily leave them satisfied, or else disgusted. In this metaphor, however, being disgusted meant more than simply going hungry: it meant being killed. Considering the amount of thought and critique their plan had undergone, disaster was far more probable than success. Unfortunately, that was a chance they were going to have to take.

"Great," Rose said, trying to find some tranquility before everything went to hell. "You won't have to act too much, given your current state." No malice in that statement, just pure observation. "Yell until they come, then say that I'm loose," she said as glanced over her shoulder, preparing a route, a hiding place, within her mind. "Good luck. Oh, and make sure they can still see your cheek! It'll prove that I'm out and dangerous." With that final bit of advice, Rose turned away, and forced her legs to move, to carry her away from James. If she tarried too long, there was a chance that she might start getting sentimental. Death had never felt more real than it did today, in these long moments, and she was reacting in a much different way than she had trained herself to.

Rose had heard plenty of whispered tales about assassins who had gone soft. They were rejected, ignored, and treated as though strangers by past companions. It happened most often with the eldest and the ones who had been given less time to train, especially those who had started late in the game. A set of morals could disable the killing part of a person, after all. But these excuses were ineffective for Rose; wasn't she raised to be ruthless? Was it possible that she had been given poor training, or else was defective over all? Maybe it was the whole ordeal with James that had gotten her derailed. Maybe, if she fulfilled her original task in killing the king, she would return to her normal state!

But, wait. Didn't she make a pact with herself to avoid that life, to become someone that wouldn't be looked down upon as scum? Rose turned the corner and grabbed her head, feeling her brain throb against her skull. Grimacing, grinding her teeth, she leaned against the wall, disregarding how unsanitary it was. When she was when James, that decent side of her tried to get free, to dominate the ugly side that had been programed to make her who she was. Now that some distance separated them, the inclination to continue pursuing her original goal was resurfacing. She had read documents about people who possessed multiple personas within themselves, different personalities. Was this what it felt like to be aware of those split personalities? Most with the disorder weren't aware and cognizant of their separate sides, so maybe she was just another anomaly, one that could perceive the different tendencies which tried to control her.

No matter who, or what, she was, Rose could taste the bittersweet call for revenge. Killing the king might be currently impossible, but, oh, how gratifying it would be to make that bastard pay for taking so much from her . . . . because he put her down here, she was becoming insecure in herself. Because he lived in the first place, she had no clue who she really was, who she was originally meant to be.

Rose touched a finger to her knife, and felt cool resolve replace anxiety. She needed to make someone pay for these past couple of days, even if it meant bringing justice down upon those not directly involved. Sorry, James . . . . Blood will flow tonight. If not your dad's, then decidedly that of his goons'.